


Vigenère Zero

by imperatorkhaleesi



Category: Bad Times at the El Royale (2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingerfucking, I AM BLUSHING LIKE A MONSTER AT THESE TAGS, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Vaginal Fingering, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperatorkhaleesi/pseuds/imperatorkhaleesi
Summary: Your notepad with all of the evidence for your article on the commune has gone missing, and you can’t leave without it. So of course, you go looking for it. And well...it’s not the only thing you find.
Relationships: Billy Lee (Bad Times at the El Royale)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Vigenère Zero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacelabrathor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacelabrathor/gifts).



You need to get the fuck out, and time is _not_ on your side.

A train is pulling out, a raid is impending, and the whole commune is pulling up stakes sooner rather than later, so you need to get your shit, call your editor, and get the fuck out tonight.

One problem, you realize as you pack up your room (solo, in the attic; you got the feeling Billy Lee didn’t want you mixing with his followers too much. Too bad for him you were almost as likeable and charismatic as him, or getting people to talk would have been a much bigger problem) is the fact of your missing notepad. You can’t fucking find it anywhere. Not tucked in the pocket of your bomber jacket where you usually leave it, not in your purse or duffle, not even in the loose floorboard where you hid it during the last raid. It’s gone. You let out a sharp curse, impatiently swatting your braids over your shoulder, and your gaze lands on your door.

No one was allowed up here, Billy Lee said. And you were really hoping to stick to your plan to leave this place through the window behind the bed after dark. But if your notepad is out there somewhere, leaving without it would be a terrible fucking idea, especially if the person who took it knows enough about ciphers to translate it on the fly.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You jump to your feet, push the door open, and come down the creaky steps to the second door, then step out into the long upstairs hallway. It’s a flurry of movement up here, everyone rushing around to clear things up and pack. Then you turn to look up at your doorframe. Your gaze crosses over the crown molding at the top of the doorway; just as decayed and peeling as it’d been weeks ago when you’d been let in. Your eye flits to the corner, where a fresh scuff mark in the paint you’d applied at top of the frame now sits. Your heart starts racing.

You turn again, stepping to your left and knocking lightly. Rose, and her sister (Annie? Or maybe Emily, something pretty and Bronte sister-adjacent, you’re sure) look up at you. Her sister smiles tightly; fuck it looks like you may have caught them in the middle of an argument.

“Hey,” you say, as casually as you can muster. The sister waves you in; Rose says nothing.

“Hey,” she replies; she’s new, only been here for a couple of days. You met her while interviewing Rose, who was astoundingly difficult to crack, which is why you saved her for last. Even now, you can feel her glaring daggers at you as you step into the room.

“Have you seen…” you stall out; the girl is nice. and she’s obviously smart. Too smart to actually be down for all of this cult shit, but her sister definitely is, and the fewer people here that know exactly what you’re writing, the better. “Has anyone been up to my room?”

“Just Billy Lee,” Rose replies, suddenly. You feel the bottom of your stomach drop out. _Fuck._ So _that’s_ probably why she’s looking at you like she wants to kill.

“Thanks,” you reply. Her sister nods; Rose watches you walk out and stand in the hallway. You weigh your options; how bad would it be if she saw you go down to the rest of the house? It could blow your cover; she’s been suspicious of you since you walked into the property. But if you can find your shit and duck out at sunset, it doesn’t matter.

If it takes you too long, you’ll definitely miss your train. You’ll either be stranded here or forced to walk.

You feel the door shut behind you, and Rose’s voice rises in protest. Whoever she was, Emily?, you owe her a special mention.

Shit. You look up at the door to your room. Then check your watch.

You _cannot_ leave without that notepad; every shred of evidence and testimony is in that fucking thing, and shit, you cannot _believe_ you were naive enough to leave it out in the fucking open for someone to take.

You got too fucking trusting, that’s it. You let your guard down here. You got sloppy, in every sense of the word. And now here you are, in a more or less life or death deadline, and nowhere to go but down.

Because you know for a fact that you cannot leave without the fucking thing.

So you check your watch again (10 hours), go back to your room, dig in the bottom of your duffle for your spare, tuck it in the waistband of your denim skirt, and take a deep breath.

Billy Lee’s wing of the house (though it is reductive to just call it a wing when really he’s got the run of the whole place; you’ve definitely seen him come out of one of the rooms at the top floor more than once, tipping his head and smiling genially at you as he went down the decaying, creaky stairs) is massive. His is the master, at the end of another long hall dotted by rooms on either side—where his Favorites slept, reorganized by weekly favoring, according to Bridget.

It’s quiet; most likely, everyone down here having got their packing done before they raised the alarm, are out communing with the land here one last time before they leave the day after next. You know for a fact Billy Lee is in the field with the members of the commune that finished their loading; it’s where you left him, once his in at the local police department let him know (you overhearing) the exact date and time the raid was taking place.

You check the floor before you; no pepper line. Then the top of the frame, and the sides; no strings. You gently pull the door open just enough for you to get through all the same, and close it behind you. He might have intruder detection you haven’t learned about yet.

His space is…astoundingly clean; it could be a by-product of the impending move, or even the benefits of having a colony of people who will clean up after him without asking, but something tells you that this is a space only trafficked by him, and therefore kept to these standards by him. His bed is neat, spartan; beside it sits a bedside table with a lamp, and a mirror on the other side, next to the balcony. His room smells like him, woodsy, and musky, and evergreen, the massive windows on the balcony doors letting the sun spill across his sheets.

Fuck.

Where do you even _start_?

The mirror? No, not taped to the back; not a hollow to hide things in the frame or behind the glass either.

Not underneath his bed; there’s a trunk under here that you wish you had the time to dig into. You may have to revisit it if everything else comes up a dead end…

The side table? Not taped underneath the drawer, nor in it. Just a stack of condoms and books. Holy shit, a _lot_ of books. The usual, unsurprising cult fare: _Kama Sutra_ , books on Buddhism, but there are some surprises. You never would have pegged him as a Simone de Beauvoir reader, but here _The Second Sex_ is, right along with a copy of _No Exit_ and _Crime and Punishment_. Huh. You’ll have to remember to add that in your notes if you ever find your pad.

Fuck, is that the floor creakin—

You jump to your feet, push the drawer closed and turn, just as Billy shoves his door open, and his eyes lock on you.

Neither of you move for a moment. His expression is frighteningly unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s surprised and angry, or if he’s been planning it this way the whole time.

“What are you doing in here?” Even the soft lilt of his voice makes you shiver; it’s quiet, and low, and gravelly, and dangerous. He has to know. He must. He’s playing with you. There’s not many options here that could end well for you, so you go for the easiest and most obvious one.

“Waiting for you,” you say, suddenly. If he’s as surprised as you are that that just came out of your mouth, he doesn’t show it. He just moves into his room and pushes the door shut behind him, the loud _click!_ of the lock going almost making you jump. His eyes stay on you as he moves toward you, then tosses himself across his bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He looks up at you then, sprawled out across his comforter, through his long, soft lashes. God, he’s fucking _big_ ; tall and scruffy and broad as all hell.

“And what can I do for you, stunner?” And he _smiles_.

You’re one thousand percent sure that Billy Lee has never met a woman he didn’t want to fuck. And you could tell that what he really loved was the chase; the only reason he was even still throwing it at you was because you’d shut him down every time, you were completely sure of that.

It mostly annoyed you; your first few weeks in the commune were a slog, mainly because all of the women were so fucking jealous of the way he looked at you, so it took you longer than you expected to earn their trust. The men were all so worried about looking at you and invoking his wrath that they pretty much avoided you. Soon, you’d just decided to go native, to show them that you could be trusted, that you weren’t some yuppie narc, and the conversations flowed after.

But there was a minuscule part of you, a part you resented, that relished the way his eyes trailed across you, lingered in places. It was a gaze you’d been taught to avoid; the desire of white men always led to danger for you. When _he_ looked at you though, _God_ it felt good. Good in a way that felt so intensely illicit.

Fuck, you’re doing this, aren’t you? You’re really gonna do this shit.

Your gaze goes to his hands, long fingers, broad palms; his chest, wide and solid, his arms, thick and strong. You let your tongue touch your bottom lip, then bite into it. The corner of his mouth curls.

“Why the change of heart, then?” The lie comes easily, too easily, almost like you hope it’ll come true by speaking it.

“My editor killed my story,” you say; Billy’s shoulders roll back, his eyes narrow, but his smile widens, and he shifts to his side to take you in, moving closer. Your breath hitches, but your voice stays steady. The half foot between you and the bed feels desperately short, and insurmountably far, all at the same time. “She’d been edging toward it for a while, and I thought I was keeping her at bay, but I guess I just ran out of excuses. On top of that,” you murmur; you lean against the edge of the side table, and his eyes flicker, for just a moment, down to the hem of your skirt. You can feel the edge of the decoy digging into your back, and adjust your cami to drape over it, just to be safe. “My notepad’s gone missing, so if that ain’t a sign, I don’t know what is.”

“Well,” he sighs, his low voice rumbling and dark; it forces a wild tangled knot of heat low, straight to your core. “You know how I feel about signs, stunner.”

He sits up then, swings his legs over the edge and looks up at you. Eight weeks of this, damn near, of interviews, observations, talking to, about, with, alongside this man, and he’s still so hard to read. Still a cipher. You can’t even tell what will sell the moment here; whether he wants to take the lead, yank you down into his lap, hold you down against him, or whether he wants you to shove him down, pull your panties off, climb until you straddle his face, until those broad hands encircle your waist, pull you tight and close against his mouth…

You’ve heard it both ways, so you’re not sure what to expect.

What you do know, without a doubt, is that you have to get your decoy notepad off you before he gets on you.

He rises, suddenly, sending your thoughts scattering as he crowds in on you. You don’t move; you plant your feet, your neck craning up to meet his gaze. He doesn’t touch you, just gets tight and close on you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. He’s tall; even in your Dr Martens, he towers over you. The smell of him is overwhelming now, burning wood and weed and the undercurrent of something sweet.

His hand comes up, after a long quiet moment, to touch your face; you smack it down and away. His head cocks, gently, and then you’re off the floor, his rejected hand around your throat, hiking you up high until your back collides with the wall, the air rushing out of your lungs with a tight grunt.

His free hand finds your thigh, pushing up the hem of your denim skirt, forcing your thighs apart, your knees framing his waist. You brace your feet against the wall behind you, your eyes still locked on his, now at the same height. He lets out a soft, huffing laugh, and _leans_ into you, rolls his hips into you, and you gasp, lips coming apart, eyes going half lidded.

You can feel his grin against the side of your face, hear your own soft sigh as the rough of his jeans meets the apex of your thighs, where you’re soaking through the flimsy fabric of your panties. _Fuck._

“Boots,” he groans against your throat. His nails dig into the meatiest part of your ass, and then he gives your thigh a sharp slap, jolting a sharp whine out of you. “Take off your boots.”

He tilts your head up, mouthing across your neck, shifting his fingers out of his way; you can feel his other hand inching upward, to the band on your skirt, where the decoy is hidden.

So you plant your hands on the wall behind you, press your palms down, leverage to arch your back, to roll your hips into his, and he groans against the side of your jaw, his eyes fluttering closed. You hook your pinky finger into the elastic close of your notepad and pull it from your waistband. Then you draw your knees higher; he pulls you further up the wall, his eyes locked on yours, his teeth nipping at your full lips as you untie the laces of your Dr. Martens, quickly shoving the notepad into the toe of one with your socks and letting it drop. He hisses; you smirk.

“You let it drop on my fucking foot on purpose, you bitch?”

You let the other boot drop to the ground behind him, then wind your legs around his waist, hands finding the nape of his neck, then pulling sharply at the hair there.

He grunts and you grin, leaning into him to bite the skin along his neck. You catch your reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall; your bare legs wrapped tight around his waist, his denim-clad back so broad, expansiv— _fuck_

Your notepad peeks out of his back pocket; you can only see the corner of the army green cover, but you’d know the shade and shape anywhere.

Right. So if you’re gonna get out of this unscathed, you’ll have to literally fuck him senseless.

…Doable.

You mouth along the line of his throat, his jaw, taking in the salty taste of his sun-warmed skin, the sharp burn of the scant hair on his chin, before you press your lips to his, meeting them in a warm, wet rush. He tastes of honey and weed, of the sharp, tangy bite of teeth, the rosy bruising grasp of his touch. His kiss is filthy in the best way, messy, grinding, overwhelming in a way that almost threatens to hurt.

His grip goes tighter around your neck, making you gasp. He licks into your mouth, another grin rolling across his face as you struggle against the squeeze of his fingers.

You roll your hips, hard, and sharp against him, like a wave. He tenses, growling, his fingers going tighter around your throat. Your eyes narrow; he smirks up at you, then buries his face in your shoulder, sucking at the skin on your neck, hard enough to bruise. _Asshole._

Your hand snakes down between you, shoves past his waistband, and you feel him, hard, and hot, and heavy between your fingers. It’s hard to maneuver in his tight ass jeans, but you make it work, wrapping around him, then squeezing as you stroke.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes screwing tight. His hand releases your neck, and he pounds his fist against the wall, thrusting his hips softly to match your rhythm.

“Get on the bed,” you whisper. His lip curls; fuck. Wrong move.

He drops you, and you barely have time to get your feet under you before he turns you, pressing you hard into the wall.

You hear a soft, sexy sigh escape his lips, and you arch your back, earning a softer “god _damn_!”; his hands run down your sides, capture your wrists, and pull them above your head. He kicks your legs wider, then presses his leg between them, and you cock your hips back further, further than you thought you could, a strained whimper tumbling out of your throat at the _feel_ of him under you.

He’s firm and steady, his fingers digging into your hip as he pushes you to roll, slow, up and down. Fuck, you could come like this, the dragging, almost painful slip of your clit against his thigh, even through the dull of fabric.

Mother _fucker_ , he’s slowing you down; won’t let you speed up, won’t let you take control.

“You gonna come like this, stunner?” He sounds wrecked; breathy and low, a soft shake in his throat. You smirk into the peeling wallpaper.

“Not even close,” you choke out. He presses his chest to your back, his hand releasing your hip, snaking around, under your skirt, over the waistband of your panties; you flinch, hard, his pointer finger pressing sharp to your clit, rolling in circles.

“And now?” He murmurs. You can feel his cock along your ass, so fucking hard it makes you dizzy; he’s rolling his hips into yours, following the rhythm you set. He speeds up on your clit and you jolt against him again, gasping, forcing yourself to slow the movement, your thighs clenching around his hands.

“Really Billy,” he presses hard against your clit and _fuck_ , it’s like you’re on fucking _fire_. You’re _right_ on the edge, _sofuckingclosefuck_ , but you _can’t_. It’s a fight now, and you’re not losing. You turn your head to look over your shoulder at him, through the gap your still raised arm makes, and you smirk, pushing a bravado you can’t even really feel. “Are you even _trying_?”

You’re _really_ about to ruin a perfect orgasm out of spite. Goddamnit.

Billy’s hand stops, abrupt; mother _fucker_. You bite into your bottom lip, _hard,_ clenching your thighs around his thigh, quivering over his hand.

Billy Lee turns you back around then, his palm heavy and warm across your sternum, his gaze steady, his expression infuriatingly unreadable, the heaving of his chest and the heaviness of his breath giving him away.

He cups the side of your face then, and you let him, his thumb brushing across your lips, eyes searching. Your lips part, your tongue darts out, just barely touching the pad of it. His head cocks again, and then he’s walking backward, pulling you with him, turning until you’re at the edge of the bed again. His hand ghosts down the front of you, unbuttoning your camisole top, pushing it off your shoulders. Then your skirt, unbuttoning, unzipping, pushing down your legs. He goes for your bra then, unhooking it with a practiced pinch, and then he’s slipping it off your shoulders, squeezing your tits in his hands. He brings his fingertips up to his mouth, licks them, then rolls your nipples between his fingers, reaching down again, pushing your waistband out of the way.

“Stop,” you sigh; he does, watching as your fingers hook into his belt loops and you pull him toward you, sinking into the edge of the bed.

“Is this what you want?” He whispers, softly. It’s sexy, desperately so, but it’s…plaintive. Almost worshipful in it’s softness. Like he’s desperate to be seen, to be wanted, and you’re the only one who can give it to him.

For the umpteenth time, you get why the commune has so many women. He has this way of looking that almost makes you weak. _Would_ have made you weak if you didn’t see what the desire of that gaze moved people to do.

So you smirk up at him as you unbutton his waistband, unzip his fly, and stroke the…fuck _massive_ fucking length of him in your hands.

“As a start,” you murmur; you catch the narrowing of his eyes again, and… _fuuuuuuck,_ the way his jaw goes slack when you take the tip of him into your mouth. He lets out the fucking hottest exhale you’ve ever heard in your life, his hands fisting in your box braids when you let go of his cock with a wet pop, and lick, slow and steady along the underside, before taking him into your mouth again.

This isn’t for you. This isn’t even really for him, but you feel yourself settling in for the long haul, and you’re feeling ambitious, and so _so_ fucking wanting, so you let your throat relax, and you let your eyes meet his, flicker up, as you slowly lick and swallow your way down his cock, moaning and humming the tighter his grip gets on your hair, your nails digging into his hips.

He just tastes so fucking _good_ ; salty and warm, and he’s so hard in your mouth, his skin so smooth.

And you bob, slow, easy, purring; you’re letting him take a bit of control, find a pace, until he starts going too slow, slower than you want him to.

You slip off, gasping, licking your lips, smirking up at him.

“Wait,” he catches the line of your jaw as you lean in to take him down again. He takes your throat again with one hand, pulls his jeans down the rest of the way with the other, drags you up the bed to lay across his pillows. He lets his hand run down the center of your body, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties; his fingers sit along the top of your slit, just stroking slow, back and forth, and back and forth, feather-light, easy, and slow. And then he’s sliding down, and in and Jesus _fucking Christ fuck_

You watch his smirk spread wide, his breath get heavy as your back arches, you inhale sharp, at the slip and push of his massive fucking fingers in you, the slow stroke of his thumb across your clit. He’s filling you so easily with just his hands; are they that big or has it been that long since you were fucked? You’re not even _sure_ of your own name as his fingers curl, working deep in you.

“Fuck,” he drawls on a breathy laugh; he slips your panties down the rest of the way and spreads your legs, biting down your neck, across your chest, your stomach. His eyes flicker up to yours as he settles between your thighs. “Wanna see if your snatch is as hot and wet as your mouth.”

Fuck, fuck, son of a _bitch_ , motherfucker, _fuck_ he’s so _good_. He’s so fucking…Jesus _Christ_!

This is not for you. This is for him. Everything about it…all of it…. _shit_ …all of it is…. _oh_ _God_. Contrived, so you’ll fall under…. _fuck_ , the way he sucks at your clit, curls his fingers up into you, holds you down, tight to his mouth, feeling him ride the roll of your hips…

It feels so fucking _good_ ; God, it’s like he knows you _already_ , like he’s memorized the shift of your hips as you walked, watched you when you wound around the bonfires…the way you’d danced with Neil that night just two weeks ago, after you’d had too much bathtub hooch…how you’d left to to go to your room and to sleep off the drunkenness and the inevitable hangover shortly after and ended up knuckle-deep in yourself, because yes, it’d been _months_ since you’d last been fucked, and the way Billy looked at you when you laughed and played around with Neil set you all the fucking way on _fire_.

“Were you…oh _fuck_ …God, right _there_ …were you watching me?” He doesn’t respond with words, just pulls your legs over his shoulders and shoves his mouth harder against you, squeezes one of your thighs tight with one hand. He presses hard against your clit and fuck, you _shudder_. You know he knows what you’re talking about, you don’t have to explain. “No one… _oh_ …no one’s allowed in my room but you?” He looks up at you then, a sharp, toothy grin on his face before his lips go to your clit again, sucking hard and sharp, sending a full body shiver all over you.

“You gonna come on my face now, stunner? I could try out a few more of the things you taught me.”

It’s not what he says that scares you. It’s the way your body instantly lights up for him, the way you get even wetter on his tongue, when your blood should run cold at the thought of him lurking in the darkness of your attic room that night, watching you fuck yourself over and over, whimpering his name into your forearm until you pass out.

_Fuck_. The performance stopped being a performance a while ago; he’s convinced you’re under his spell, but you won’t let him really win, won’t let him think he’s winning this battle, even though you’re gonna let him take the war.

“We both know that I’m not that easy, baby,” you whisper; Billy bites into the inside of your thigh, viciously, and you let out a loud yelp. His bed squeaks, shifts as he climbs back up, crowds into you, your back pressed to his chest, and his hand snakes over your hips, working your clit fast and hard. “Oh _God_!” His arm shoves underneath your torso, holding you tight to him; he buries his chin against your shoulder, his gaze flickering between the desperate look on your face and his fingers working your clit. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“You gonna come for me now, baby?” He snarls into your ear; he’s rocking his hips against your ass. You’re not even sure he’s aware of it.

“Fuck…mm, fuck me, _please_ ,” you whimper, soft. You feel his smirk along your neck, but you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’tfucking care, youjustdon’t _fuckingcare—_

You can feel it coming, that wave, rising high, and tall, and overwhelming, you don’t know how you’re even going to be able to take it—

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna fuck you,” Billy hums. How he manages to go faster, you have no clue, you’re just shaking in his arms now. “I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t remember your name. I’m gonna make this beautiful wet fucking pussy come all over my cock—”

A sharp, loud groan rips out of you, and you go ramrod fucking straight against him, as you gush all over his hands, all over his sheets, and fuck, he won’t stop, he won’tfucking _stop_ —

He pulls your leg up, locking eyes with you, and he slides into you on one quick slipping thrust, and _oh_ , it’s astounding how massive he is, how he’s splitting you in half like this, even after that earth-shattering orgasm.

“Damn girl,” he moans, pressing your thigh into your chest, circling his hips, “you’re like a fuckin’ vice. So fuckin’ hot and wet for me.” You have no clue how you manage it, but you give him a tight, hot little squeeze in the midst of your orgasm aftermath, and he bites into his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He smirks down at you again, wolfish with it. “I’m gonna wear your ass out, baby.” You smirk back up at him in the haze.

Challenge accepted, asshole.

You should feel violated; used. It occurs to you idly, after the third round, after you roll off him for the second time, that this should probably be a traumatic experience for you; fucking someone this dangerous to get your shit back, so you can leave in the dead of night.

But you turn to look at him, and the fondness in his eyes is…unsettling. It nearly makes you forget.

You initiate this next time around; plucking his nearly done cigarette from between his fingers, finishing it in one pull, then reach for his cock, pumping it slow and easy in your hand.

He hisses then, his gaze meeting yours. He’s tired; you can tell; it’s amazing how it only took a few hours of fucking for you to finally learn a cipher you’d been trying to decode for weeks. His cock is rising, but the rest of him isn’t; he’s got his arms folded behind his head now, his eyes a challenge.

And you’re _sore_ ; you know you’ll be feeling him for days, you’ll have bruises and bite marks and hickeys dotting your brown skin for at least a week after. But it’s still a battle, and _you’re not losing_.

So you swing your left leg over him, plant your palms on his thighs, and slip down onto him, your breathy sigh cloaked by the hiss that slips out of his mouth. You can’t suppress the grin that comes as his hands find your waist, run down your spine as you clench around him and roll your hips.

It’s not for you, you think; he’s got you against the railing for the balcony now, mouths pressed together in the moonlit night, him with his hand wrapped around your leg wrapped around his waist, you holding the railing for dear life as he rolls his hips, repeatedly slamming you into the wood beam behind you. It is a bit for him; for that desperate look of desire in his eyes, the way his hand covers yours on the railing as he fucks into you and hits that spot that makes your eyes roll back, that overwhelming wanting in the way he bites into your lip as he comes.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” he murmurs, _much_ later in the night. It might be 1 am, but you can’t see your watch in the dim light of his bedside lamp. You’re trying to stay the fuck awake; he’d been riding you, felt like he was trying to fuck you straight through his mattress, wouldn’t let you come until you begged him, sobbing into the tangle of his sheets and pillows, _then_ wouldn’t let you _stop_ coming until he was satisfied, until he fucked into the drenched, quivering ruin of your pussy after your (fourth? fifth? _consecutive_ ) orgasm.

You still can’t feel your legs, and your eyelids are heavy, but the slur in his voice immediately brings you back to attention.

“Hm?” You feel a sharp slap on your ass and jump.

“You heard me, stunner.” You turn your head then, to look at him in the half darkness of his room, lying next to you; he’s _wrecked._ Those warm eyes half lidded, hair a complete mess, movements sluggish and lazy. You smile softly at him. And you tell the truth.

“I’m beginning to warm to the prospect,” you reply. The fingers still on your ass dip very suddenly and very quickly into your pussy, and you immediately tense; he’s slowly pumping them in and out and in and out and _in_ and _outttt_ of you, easeful in his exhausted movements.

This isn’t for you, you remind yourself, but your hips start to match the languid pace, your breath coming heavy.

“You seem pretty hot on the idea from where I’m sitting,” he says; his thumb presses lazily to your clit and you gasp, clenching around his fingers—he curses low, moving faster.

Staythefuckawake, don’t pass out, don’t pass out don’t pass out don’t pass out don’t—

You reach over then and rotate, pull yourself toward him, spread your legs when he nudges them further open, and take him into your mouth again. His hands instantly still; you’re not easy or slow on him this time. This time, you take him as deep as you can and start sucking, working the parts of him your mouth can’t reach with your hands. The taste of him is fucking intoxicating; you almost hate yourself for how much you already miss it, how wet and ready you are for him still.

“Fuck,” his voice comes raspy and low; his free hand finds your hair, but his grip is weak. The finish line is _soclose_ you can _taste_ it.

He’s throbbing in your mouth, his fingers are working again, albeit not as fast. A race, then. You hum, hollow your cheeks out more, pump faster.

He’s so close, so _close_ , so _so_ _socloseeee_ you flood his fingers again, in anticipation, desperate for this last taste of him.

“Holy shit, baby,” you look at him out of the corner of your eye, and his gaze, molten and hot and hazy with pleasure, meets yours. “I’m gonna come.” His balls pull up in your hands, you take the tip of him in your mouth and suck—

Fuck. _Fuck!_ , his hand curls in you, sudden, and he pumps, quick, tight, fast, thumb shaking over your clit, and then you’re both coming, him tense, spurting into your mouth, then across your chin and chest; you, a livewire, shaking from the lighting quick crest of pleasure.

_Don’t fucking pass out_ , you think, frantically, _don’t fuck don’t don’t don’t_

He goes limp, slowly drawing his fingers out of you, making you fucking _shake_. You turn your head to face him, his dick sliding the rest of the way from your mouth. His eyes are closed. You go still, waiting. Then.

“Billy?” One of his eyes pops open.

“Clean yourself up, stunner. See you tomorrow for breakfast.” And he rolls onto his side, eyes closing.

You wait, eyes on your watch, holding it in the beam of the bedside lamp; you wait for 2:51 am to become 3:20 am, wait for the sound of his breathing to slow, wait for that hideous, unavoidable affection and guilt to die in your chest, before you roll over slow, wincing at the pain, and reach for his jeans.

You don’t bother to leave the decoy notepad on your way out. You hate yourself a little for it, but that’s okay. The bruises fade, the soreness is replaced by another, the guilt ebbs away, but the affection never really dies, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> The words "cipher" and "zero" have the same etymological root.


End file.
